


guilty as charged

by consultingwives (westminsterabi)



Series: Quinlock Shorts [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: :(, Angst, Drug Use, Drugs, F/F, Femlock, Lesbian Sherlock, Rule 63, Songfic, addict sherlock, also i consider the drug use "graphic" so I'm marking to be sure but there's no blood, gender swap, my poor daughter, tegan and sara, this isn't porn but i'm marking it E because there is VERY EXPLICIT depiction of drug use, this wound up SO MUCH SADDER than I intended
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-14
Updated: 2016-04-14
Packaged: 2018-06-02 07:21:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,184
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6557089
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/westminsterabi/pseuds/consultingwives
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I mean, who leaves a wedding early?"</p><p>Songfic based on "Guilty as Charged" by Tegan and Sara.</p>
            </blockquote>





	guilty as charged

**Author's Note:**

  * For [spectacularlyignorantdetective](https://archiveofourown.org/users/spectacularlyignorantdetective/gifts).
  * Inspired by [an idea](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/189664) by Laura. 



It’s as the last strains of _Late December_ float through the windows that Sherlock Holmes pushes open the door to the cottage and her feet feel as if they’re made of lead.

 

_Guilty as charged, you were on my mind._

 

That last exchange was the most—it was too much. John, pregnant? Pregnant with Mark’s baby. And Sherlock was thinking about her so selfishly, because how could she not be in love with the father of her soon-to-be child? What place could Sherlock have in that world? Certainly not as John’s lover. It was as if the realization had just struck her. Yes, of course that's how she loves John. She’d known that, somewhere in the back of her mind, but Sholto showing up and the way that John had looked at her ( _Jamie, I didn’t think you’d make it._ ) had confirmed her worst fears. John could love a woman; she _has_ loved a woman. Sherlock just isn't that woman.

 

_Try as I might, I can’t seem to lie._

 

And probably everyone knows, they heard that speech. Everyone heard it. Never mind that Sherlock insisted. They had no best man, so Sherlock took those duties on herself, and she’s shown her hand entirely.

 

_I can love you back if you like._

She is John’s best friend. John has said that she is important, but clearly she is number two next to Mark. There is a hierarchy— _we can’t all dance together, there are limits!_ —no matter what John might insist. And Sherlock has fallen into this stupid, ridiculous trap, thinking that she can occupy a place in John’s life that would be equal to Mark. ( _I mean, who leaves a wedding early?_ ) Sherlock, clearly, trudging out, close to tears and wondering how the hell she is going to get back to London, is nowhere close. Not as if she owns a car. She'll get into the town, catch a train maybe. As if that's the largest of her concerns.

 

_I can hold you back if you like._

 

She would have told John not to do this, if that’s what she’d thought John had wanted—god, she can't figure it out, her big brain is racing and everything feels fractured and disordered—of course she wouldn’t have told John not to do this, that would have been incredibly selfish—where is the bus? As much as she wishes she had, she doesn' know Bristol well enough to be able to figure out how to get to the station.

 

_And so I go back home to be by myself._

 

The bus is mere steps away, and Sherlock boards, trying not to think of anything but failing while her brain races around and she feels as if it’s falling apart. Pay no attention to the crying woman in the corner; but she’s not crying yet. Not until she trails through the rows, looking at the oblivious people who can’t possibly feel this tangible upset, running her fingers along the rails and taking her seat and finally ducking her face into her hands and heaving a long, deep sob.

She used to be an actor, and of all the roles she’s played, of all the skins she’s stepped in—Cressida, Agave, Medea, Antigone, Macduff, Hester Swane—all the women whose pain she’s tangibly felt, and stepped off the stage feeling genuinely upset, because that’s how you know you’ve done a good job, when it feels _real_ —this skin is by far the most painful. These sobs are the deepest.

 

_I try everything I’ve ever read._

 

And her face crumples and she can’t hold it back—she’s an anonymous face, tangled up in her felt coat, wiping her nose and bloodshot eyes with an inadequate hand and the hem of her beautiful, flowing lilac dress. John was in lilac too, there was no pretence of a white wedding—she's pregnant, after all, although they only realised after—and Sherlock realised how completely absurd it was that they matched. Same dress. How ridiculous.

 

_Desperate, I still can’t keep you out of my head._

 

No matter what she tries, there’s this vast expanse of loneliness stretching in front of her. Mrs Hudson was right. Marriage changes people. Sherlock can already feel the distance. She has missed her chance; she started missing her chances that very first night (“Do you have a boyfriend who feeds you up?” “Boyfriend, not really my area.”) and she kept missing them until she jumped off the roof of Bart’s, but by that time she already royally fucked it all up. She could have had John, but now it’s too late, and she can’t imagine ever loving anyone the way she loves John now.

 

_Because you’re on my mind._

 

John’s gun is still at Baker Street.

_All the time._

 

No.

 

_Now you’re on my mind._

She can’t do that to Mrs Hudson, who’d hear the shot and probably think Sherlock was just drilling holes into the wall again, who’d run up, _I’m putting this on your rent young lady,_ and find—

 

_All the time._

 

She absolutely can’t. And yet she craves the oblivion that she could have had that January day more than two years ago, if she’d just jumped without anyone to catch her.

 

_A blessing in disguise I was on your mind._

 

But John doesn’t love her that way. It isn’t a matter of missed opportunities, it’s a matter of loving someone in _that way,_ and John doesn’t. She can’t, not the way she loves Mark or even Jamie, she said it herself—you’re my _best friend_. That’s all. She has to live with that.

 

_Try as you might you may well soon find._

Sherlock buys a ticket, one way, to London and pats her wallet to make sure she has her Oyster card—of course she does. So she’ll get into Paddington, take the Hammersmith and City or Circle Line back to Baker Street and return to the empty flat. It’ll feel incredibly empty, without John there. With—

 

Well, there’s something to keep her company. She hasn’t been a very good recovered addict, not the past few days, she’s been stocking up on—well, on what she needs.

 

_I am yours but you can’t be mine._

The train is coming in fifteen minutes, and Sherlock sits on the platform, chilled to the bone even though it’s summer, trying to think of things to do besides the drugs she’s got in her sock drawer but coming up empty because the cocaine is the only thing that cares about her right now. Maybe if Mycroft had showed up, she could have prevented this, which was why Sherlock invited her. But it’s too late. Sherlock has her plan. Everyone she knows who she could trust to get a text that says _Please help_ is still dancing, probably without noticing that Sherlock has gone.

 

Even Janine…

 

_I am sure you’ll always be mine._

Sherlock knows she’ll never get over this, never, maybe she’ll just OD and people will think it’s an accident—she can’t believe that her mind is going to this place. Just six months ago, everything was fantastic. She returned to London, the feeling of ecstasy as she first spotted John’s face in something other than a photograph, the feeling of relief at knowing that things could almost go back to the way they were because John would eventually forgive her: all that has given way to the greatest despair that Sherlock has felt since that January day in 2010, _Afghanistan or Iraq?_ And now no one cares.

 

_Crazy, crazy, I’m crazy about you…_

 

She boards the train, takes her seat, and curls up, wishes that she could just disappear right here, that the earth would swallow Sherlock Holmes so that she won’t have to face the decision of loading up a syringe and still thinking to herself, _I could not do this, I could still go back_ and then knowing that really, the decision’s already made and she will shoot this up and she will fall down into oblivion and she will relapse and she will die if she doesn’t make it into rehab.

 

Really, it’s already decided, right here, right now on the train, and she’s too determined for anything else to happen.

 

_Caught in the act, you were on my mind._

 

Better than suicide, at least.

 

_Lucky for you, now I’m on your mind._

 

She wonders if John is wondering where she is, by now. Probably not, she’s probably too busy dancing with Mark and thinking about the new life they’re about to bring into the world. The West Country flickers by and Sherlock feels sick. Why all this melodrama over one woman? What happened to cool, calm, logic?

 

Well, that went out the window the moment she invited John along on their first case. It had been one irrational, stupid, emotional decision one after the other since then, since January 29, 2010.

 

She wonders if anyone will find her on the train, anyone she knows will see her and wonder why Sherlock Holmes of all people is stuck here, sobbing uncontrollably on a train back from Bristol. She wishes someone would find her and ask what could possibly be so wrong to reduce Sherlock Holmes to tears. Because she’s never said it out loud, and she just wants to say it to one person, but now it would be completely indecent. In love with a married woman. Her best friend. She still wants to say it out loud. _I love you, John Watson. I love you. I am in love with you._

 

Somewhere in those thoughts, she falls asleep.

 

_And so I go back home, to be by myself._

“The next stop is Paddington Station. All passengers must disembark at Paddington Station.”

  
She rouses herself, blinks, runs a hand through her mane of messy curls. The day she got back to London, she cut off her long hair in favour of a cropped style. So far she hasn’t regretted it, although having a nice strand to chew on— _that’s disgusting, Sherlock_ —might be nice right now. She needs something to keep herself occupied.

 

Slowly, she shuffles out of the train and down to the tube. It’s past midnight, so the trains are less frequent now, but there’s a Circle Line train coming in seven minutes.

 

_I try everything I’ve ever read._

 

She’s shaking, she hasn’t eaten since yesterday and she’s probably in hypoglycaemic shock right now but she couldn’t give a fuck. The train pulls in and she bites her lip, drawing blood. Her period’s due today. She’s probably iron deficient, too, but she can’t bring herself to care a whit about that, either. Somehow, even though she’s thinking about this body she occupies, John is still on her mind, ever present, John’s eyes, John’s hair, the way that John looks at her when she’s not thinking about Mark, the way that John looked at Mark when she realised she was pregnant. John’s eyebrows. The way John bosses her around when someone’s life is in danger and John can save it. John. What would John tell her if Sherlock said that she was thinking of relapsing? _You dolt, don’t you dare, I’ll stay with you. Why? Sherlock, tell me why! I’m here for you…_

But she wasn’t, and even if Sherlock told her, right now, what she was planning, there was no way that John would make it to London in time to stop her.

 

_Desperate, I still can’t keep you out of my head._

The tube ride takes under ten minutes, and Sherlock bounds out of the station, decision made, not ready, not ready, and yet craving the feeling of a needle in her arm, of that taste that will make her soar high and forget every shitty feeling she’s ever had about herself, especially what she’s feeling right now.

 

_Cause you’re on my mind._

 

She wants to bleach her brain out, take out every memory of John and go back to the way she was before, just days after her thirty-first birthday, just a few notches away from killing herself, taking her only joy from tormenting Scotland Yard because _that, that would be better than this._ Absolute despair, rock bottom, the numbness that’s creeping across her skin as she roots around in her pockets for her keys and turns them in the lock.

 

_All the time._

She can’t sob again, she can’t cry, she’s better than this.

 

_Now you’re on my mind._

Seventeen steps, taken so quickly as she dashes toward oblivion.

 

_All the time._

 

White powder, 50 cc-s of water, she’s not bothering to boil it, who cares if she gets a bacterial infection at this stage, and the cocaine is good enough quality that it dissolves immediately ( _she could still turn back_ ) and then she’s on the couch, ready because no one is home and no one will be, not for ages, and the needle goes in her arm and she could still turn back and her thumb is on the plunger but she could still change her mind.

 

And then it’s too late.

 

_Always on my mind._


End file.
